Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

07 June 2012

Well played, Karma... Well played.

The other night, my friend Lindsay called to tell me a HILARIOUS story about her mother.

Apparently, they had gone to a restaurant that had been recommended to them by a new friend, as they just recently moved from California to Bumfuck, Wyoming.  

After the cocktails arrived, Lindsay's mom announced, "I'm not feeling so good..." and then proceeded to projectile vomit right there at the table.

(I'm not going to go into as graphic of details as Lindsay did... Thanks, doll, for those images that will never leave my brain, by the way... but suffice it to say, it wasn't pretty.)

Lindsay, her baby, her mom and the booth they were sitting in were pretty well demolished.  After the mess was cleaned up (the poor, poor wait staff... omg... there is not a big enough tip in the world to make up for that) and Lindsay was packing up the baby and preparing herself to do the Walk Of Shame out of the restaurant, her mom announced, "I feel better now!  Want to stay and eat?" and then proceeded to finish her margarita.

Could someone please hand me my drink and an appetizer?

(That's my favorite part, right there.  Seriously.  Lindsay's mom is freaking ROCK STAR.)

Upon hearing this story, I literally laughed myself into a pants-wetting asthma attack.  No lie.  We howled with hilarity as Lindsay described how she now calls her mother "Chuck" and I cracked myself up to the point of no return by saying, "What's UP, Chuck?" and "Hey, Chuck... how are Ralph and Huey?"  

Oh, how our gales of girlish guffaws traveled down the phone wires that night!

Oh, how we enjoyed ourselves at Lindsay's mom's expense!

Oh, how I entertained my in-laws this past weekend with this delightful little saga of vomit and embarrassment!

Me, 6758 times before, during, and after relating this story:  "Oh my God... can you imagine?  I would have died on the spot!!  HILARIOUS!"

Flash forward to last night:

Dan and I decided to try a new restaurant last night and went to a local Mongolian Grill.  The ambiance was nice, the art work beautiful, the place smelled divine.  I was super excited because, well, Number 1:  Food was involved and Number 2:  I'd never had Mongolian Grill before.  I've never been a giant fan of Asian cuisine but everyone assured me I would love this, so hey... what's the worst thing that could happen, right?


The restaurant featured a charming and well stocked buffet filled with delectable side dishes that you could add to your entree'.  Not being a fan of buffets, I was still intrigued... but cautious.


I filled my plate with pickled pears and cucumbers (delish), averted my eyes from the squid salad (seriously... WTF???) and went a little piggy with the fresh cut fruit.  

Squid salad.  SQUID SALAD.  That is just every kind of wrong there is.

Then I noticed some stuffed clams that looked UH. MAY. ZING.

The description over the dish read "Delicious seafood stuffed clam shell with Asian twist."

They looked like something Bobby Flay would whip up on the grill while blending up a big-ass batch of something containing tequila.

I threw caution to the wind, scooped one up, and put it on my plate.

It looked like a clam shell covered in melted cheese.

Oh my God, right?

Because cheese?  Is GOD.

I mean GOOD.

I meant GOOD.

Or did I?

I love cheese with every fiber of my being.  

I trotted off to our table, snarfed down the fruit and the pickled stuff, then scooped up a giant forkfull of my stuffed clam and popped it into my chubby little mouth.

And immediately started retching.  



Because that amazing gooey yellow stuff covering the clam wasn't The God Of The Dairy Aisle, my friends.

It wasn't the third tier of the Holy Trinity of the Father, Son, and Cheese....

Oh no.

It was...



If you've ever read my blog or actually gone out for a meal with me in person, you know about my mayo phobia.  

Given the choice between Death and Eating Mayo, I would choose Death.  Every. Single. Time.

I can't stand how it looks, smells... I don't even want to know it's lurking anywhere in my refrigerator.  When I order a sandwich or a burger or anything where mayo can be hidden, I put the waitstaff through the freaking Spanish Inquisition, making sure that nothing with mayo, that has been near mayo, that has ever met mayo, will be anywhere near my food.
And then after it arrives at my table, I go through it like a mama gorilla picking fleas off her baby's back.

Me:  *picking apart lettuce, tomato, pickles, onions*  "Is there something white on that?  Does that look like mayo?"  *removing offending piece of vegetable that may or may not have something white on it*  "I swear to God if it's mayo I'm gonna puke."  *sniffing sandwich/burger/whatever to make sure I don't smell the stank of mayonnaise*

No lie.

(Makes you really wanna go out to eat with me, doesn't it.)

Dan actually paused between fork-fulls to look at me with concern and ask, "Are you okay??  What's wrong?"

Me:  *gagging and waving my hand in front of my face while chugging diet Pepsi and not being dramatic  AT ALL*  "Oh my God... OH MY GOD... THAT'S MAYO!  THAT'S MAYO!!  HURRY!  GET IT OFF MY PLATE! GET IT OFF MY PLATE!!!  OH MY GOD!  COVER IT UP WITH SOMETHING... I CAN'T LOOK AT IT!"

Dan:  *whisking it off my plate and putting a napkin over it*  "Oh my God... are you going to be okay?  ARE YOU GOING TO PUKE??"

A look of pure panic appeared in his eyes as he moved his plate away from the path of my potential vomit.

Me:  *retch*  *retch*  *retch*  "No... I don't..."  *retch* *gag* "Oh God... I'm gonna hurl... *retch*

The people sitting on all sides of us were beginning to look a little green.  And kind of sick, themselves.

I made it through Dan finishing his food (barely) and we left the restaurant without me taking another bite.

I grabbed a handful of mints at the register and shoved them into my mouth in the car as we drove home, practicing my Lamaze breathing and thinking about raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

Dan was very concerned for my well-being:  "You're not gonna puke, are you?  Because if you do, I'll puke, too.  And I'm not cleaning it out of the car."

After we arrived home, Dan began Act 2:  Reliving The Experience.  

Dan:  "You should have seen your face!  HAW HAW HAW!!  I thought you were gonna lose it right there!!  You were LOUD, too! *cue imitation of me retching and gagging* I was waiting for your head to spin and pea soup to come flying out of your mouth!  HAWWWWW HAW HAW HAW HAWWWWW!  Weren't you embarrassed?"

And then I remembered...

Lindsay's mom.

Oh, how hard I laughed at Lindsay's mom.


Only not as bad ass, because I didn't finish my drink or head back to the buffet.  

You were quick this time, Karma... I wasn't expecting you until at least next week.



  1. Oh man! I'm so glad that I've never thrown up anywhere but a toilet. Although back when I was drinking sometimes I'd throw up in the toilet at the bar, then go out and keep on drinking. Probably good I don't drink anymore.

    1. I wish I could say the same thing. I think the worse place I puked was IN to a guy's car after a party where massive quantities of alcohol was consumed. By me.

      He was taking me home because my seriously drunk under-aged ass was a potential liability (he was in college...I, on the other hand, was in high school) and as he walked me out to the parking lot and opened the door of his prized possession (a shiny new CA bug... the convertible ones) I leaned in and ralphed all over the interior.

      Gee, I wonder why he never called again...

  2. Do you hate eggs, oil, and vinegar on an individual basis, or is it just that combination of ingredients?

    I mean, I'm not a huge fan of mayo myself, and will substitute greek yogurt or sour cream whenever a recipe calls for mayo, but I don't huwarf at the very thought of it.

    You might be slightly mental, dear.

    1. It's the texture, the smell, and the appearance. Not to mention the taste. I'm not a giant fan of eggs or oil... I really dislike deep fried foods (I know... weird, for a fat girl, right?) but individually, they do not make me barf.

      Mix them all together and it becomes a vile glutenous mass of toxic waste.

      And really... you're just now figuring out the mental part? Really?

      Also, my sister has the same reaction. Only she can't eat sour cream, either. SHE's the crazy one.

    2. I share your mayo phobia. It's totally the texture, and the gelatinous appearance. I love eggs, and can handle oil, but when they're whisked together... Blech!

  3. Karma is usually quite funny when it bites someone else in the ass, not quite so humerous when it comes knocking on your own door....

  4. You seriously crack me up. I love reading your posts. :D

    ....the way you are with mayo is exactly how I feel about cheese. Like to the point where if I smell cheese I start gagging, and I don't even have a gag reflex usually. :/

    Her mom is definitely a rock star.

    1. As dear to my heart as cheese is, I still get it. I totally do.

      No one understands my mayo phobia and it's like it doesn't register. They get all confused and say stuff like, "Then what do you put on your sandwich? You don't like it in salad dressing? How about tartar sauce? Don't you eat tartar sauce? You don't put it in potato salad? What do you mean, you don't eat coleslaw? How about Miracle Whip?"


  5. My dad felt exactly the same way you do about mayo. He swore the bible had a verse that said "though shalt not eat mayo". One time at a meeting they served jello with a lovely dollop of whipped cream on top. Dad scooped it off and popped it in his mouth....... Only it wasn't whipped was mayo.

    Watching dad gag......priceless

    1. I'm going to have nightmares for a week and never eat jello again.

      THANKS, AMY.

  6. I hear ya... I once threw up into a plastic cup in the back of a cab whilst my friend distracted the cab driver and the other threw it out the window.

    This are the moments of our lives... That we will NEVER. LIVE. DOWN.



  7. Bwahahahaha!!! Boy, karma really likes to make you her bitch, huh?

    Although how fucking badass is Chuck?


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